


Storm

by EmeraldEyedFairy



Series: Pride Month 2017 [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 21:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11067183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldEyedFairy/pseuds/EmeraldEyedFairy
Summary: A dream and a storm has America remembering meeting Russia for the first time, leading to an emotional phone call.





	Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Day one of the Pride Month prompts: Storm

The steady pitter-patter of rain pellets on puddles of water and cobblestone street was broken only by the occasional thunderclap. Lamps flickered in the blackness of the night, and a couple of them lost their light to the storm. 

There were no people rushing around to get to their carriages or inside their homes, for the storm had been occurring for over three days. The only sign of life was a young boy who appeared too young to be out without a guardian. The boy gazed around with large blue eyes, his hair was wet and clung to his face, giving the illusion of someone who’d been out in the rain for a long while.

The boy didn’t seem to be in a hurry, and he didn’t look as though the ongoing storm bothered him. As a matter of fact, the boy didn’t seem to notice the storm at all. He merely gazed around as though looking for someone. The boy made no move to call out, but eventually he did walk a few paces down the street before stopping and once more looking around. This time his bottom lip began to tremble, although whether it was from the cold or his not being able to find what or whom he was looking for it’s unable to tell. 

He repeated the process of walking, stopping, and looking around seven times, before he stood still in the middle of a puddle. He did call out, though he didn’t shout a name. What was odd about this little boy is that he shouted a place, and not even one that was near, “England?” His voice was muffled by a particularly loud thunderclap. 

A nearby innkeeper heard and peeked through the blinds, just in time to see someone approach the little boy. The innkeeper watched as the boy turned around and furrowed his brow, he didn’t appear to recognize the person. This caused the innkeeper to rush out into the storm to try and rescue the boy, not at all trusting the person who’d come up to confront the boy. However…

What the old innkeeper saw when he was near enough was the expression in the boy’s bright blue eyes was not one of fear, but one of admiration. His young voice rang out, “Mister Russia?” He sounded confused, and certainly not afraid. The man gazed down at the boy, his expression friendly enough. The boy tried again, “Where’s England?” 

The man, Mister Russia, glanced at the innkeeper, his eyes far less friendly than when he was looking down at the boy. He responded, not breaking eye contact with the old man, “Across the sea.” He turned to look once more at the boy, “Come little Alfred, you should not be out in the rain.” The man’s accent sounded foreign to the innkeeper’s ears, but the boy simply gave a large smile and raised his arms at Mister Russia, resembling a child that wished to be picked up. 

To Alfred’s apparent delight, Mister Russia complied with his wishes, and carried him over to the old innkeeper. The old man hadn’t noticed how large Mister Russia was from the distance, but now found that he had to tilt his head back to look him in the eye. Mister Russia’s gaze had softened and he requested, “Is there an empty room for this child to rest until the storm fades?” 

The innkeeper nodded numbly, the storm causing water droplets to cloud up his glasses. He turned and led the way back inside, ever so often glancing over his shoulder to see if he was still being followed. 

Once inside the two newcomers were greeted with the scent of freshly baked bread wafting through the air. Wordlessly the innkeeper led them to where they would be staying, and left to find them something warm to eat. 

When the door closed Mister Russia placed Alfred on the bed, and looked down at him with a troubled expression, “You need to be careful about what you say when there are humans about.” He scolded gently.

Alfred cast his gaze down and looked appropriately guilty, “I’m sorry.” He mumbled, “It’s just… England said he would be back soon and that was before the storm started. I’m worried about him.” 

Mister Russia sighed and moved to sit next to the boy, remaining a far enough distance away that young Alfred could stretch and not touch the older man. When he next spoke it was to say, “England is a powerful empire, and he has been around for as long as I have. A storm will not harm him, the worst it can do is slow him down from coming to see you.” 

Alfred rubbed his eyes and yawned, only just now noticing how fatigued he was feeling. He had been wandering from town to town in search of England, and he hasn’t had a moment to rest. Still, something had been plaguing the young boy’s thoughts, “But you came to see me.” He pointed out. His bright eyes were alight with curiosity. 

Mister Russia smiled softly and slowly moved to run a hand through the boy’s soaked hair; it was as though he were giving the boy a chance to cower away from him. The boy didn’t move, only continued to stare up at the large man with big eyes. Mister Russia dropped his arm to his side and moved his gaze to the window, just in time to see a flash of lightning. He waited for the thunder to boom before informing the boy, “I had come because England is not here. I simply wanted to meet you, but I must go before your father-figure comes to see you.”

Alfred tilted his head to the side, “Why?” When he asked that one word Mister Russia smiled fondly, but he did not answer the boy’s questions. He simply brushed his hand  once more through the boy’s hair, and he left the room. 

* * *

 

A loud thunderclap woke up the slumbering nation. A hand groped the top of the bedside table for the pair of glasses that rested precariously from the edge. Upon finding it the nation sat up and flickered on the lamp, while simultaneously putting on the spectacles with his other hand. He frowned when he read the time from the alarm clock, finding it to be much too early in the morning for one to be awake.

He sighed and slid out of bed, deciding it would be best to grab a midnight snack while he was awake. He looked down at himself and frowned at his state of undress, but decided that he didn’t need clothes on to walk around his own house. 

The house was silent, and the nation was once again reminded of the fact that he lived alone. Sometimes his brother would visit, and other times Japan would visit. Although the latter didn’t have much choice on the matter, but tonight the nation was alone. The only sound that could be heard was bare-feet on wood, then on carpet, and finally on tile, as the nation walked through his house to get to his kitchen. 

He settled on grabbing the bag of half-empty pizza rolls and began the necessary steps of preheating the oven and looking for a clean pan. As he did this his mind wandered to the strange dream he had been having. 

It wasn’t a dream so much as… a memory. A loud thunderclap caused the man to jump, before laughing at himself for being to paranoid. At the time he didn’t understand why Russia had come and gone in such a hurry, but now he got it. Russia came out of sheer curiosity, and he had gone because England was overprotective.

After another loud thunderclap the electricity flickered and went out, causing the nation to mutter the word, “Shit.” His eyes roamed the kitchen, having no problem seeing in the dark. His gaze settled on a cell-phone, and impulsively he reached over to grab it. He glanced at the time once more to be certain he wouldn’t be waking anyone up before dialing a number that he’s had memorized for a very long time. 

As he waited for the other to pick up the phone he walked out onto his back porch, leaning against the rail and gazing out into the storm. This storm felt so much like the one from his childhood, he felt as though it were a sure sign to give this person a call. 

The person didn’t pick up the phone. The nation muttered, “Bastard.” And tried again, determined to talk to the other tonight. About what, he still wasn’t certain. This time the other did pick up the phone.

“What?” He spoke in English, and the nation smirked to himself. At some point in the past, the nation didn’t exactly know when, he made a large deal out of refusing to speak any other language, it was mostly meant as a joke but the other nations didn’t find it funny. Still, they took up the habit of only speaking his language when around them.

Trying to hide his laughter the man answered in the other’s language, “Privet!” He was certain he butchered the pronunciation but when the other spoke next it sounded like he was smiling.

“America,” the nation smiled at the sound of the other’s accent saying his name, “Why did you call on this line?” The American had been sure to call on the informal line, the one used for midnight chats or drunken mistakes of a phone call. 

America moved the phone away from his ear just in time for another thunderclap, and when he put the phone back at his face he smiled and said, “Didja hear that?” 

“Are you outside in the storm?” America’s smile widened at the slight concern in the other’s voice. 

“Don’t worry about me Broski, I’m on my porch.” He told the other before falling silent, content to just be on the phone with the other. He’d never been one to withstand silence and soon enough he told the other, “I had a weird dream, and I was woken up by thunder. It made me think that it was sign that I should give you a call.” 

“Me?” 

America nodded, before realizing the other couldn’t see him, “Sure, why not? Anyway do you want to hear about my dream?”

“I’m certain I’m going to hear about it anyway.” The other teased lightheartedly, “What time is it at your home?”

“It’s about three in the morning.” America answered, “Anyway, I dreamed about when I first met you. I knew who you were without you even telling me.” America chuckled as the rain started beating down harder than it had been. If his eyes were correct then it had begun to hail. 

“It is because we are both nations.” Russia answered him, “Don’t you have other people to call?”

“Well sure.” America drew out the last syllable before confessing, “But I don’t want to talk to them, I want to talk to you.”

“I am doing well, you are doing well.” Russia began, “I’m going to hang up on you now.” But he waited to hear America’s response.

“Wait, don’t hang up!” The other ordered predictably, “Can’t we just… I dunno spend time together in silence?” 

“...Alright.” The other agreed. On the other end America heard the sound of wheels rolling on wooden floor and then the sound of heavy bootsteps. Russia must have risen from his chair and was now walking. 

The sound of a door opening and closing, and then the light pitter-patter of rain on cobblestone. So it was raining at his home too…

Neither nation spoke for the remainder of the phone call, simply stood out in the storm together, so much like when they first met. The didn’t hang up until the storm had ended.


End file.
